The Faerie Guardian

Chapter Three

"Right." It looks like Nate's trying to work out whether that makes sense. "So what constitutes creepy aside from half-naked, scaly-skinned women?"

"Oh, just about any kind of fae. Boggarts, goblins, spriggans, kelpies, halflings—"

"No way! Hobbits are real?" Nate's eyes light up.

"Hobbits?"

"Yeah, hobbits. Halflings. Small . . . hairy feet . . . live in the Shire . . ."

Where does he get this stuff from? "Nope. Sorry." I flick a glow-bug off my shoulder. "A halfling is a half-breed. Like a half-goblin, half-pixie. Or a half-faerie, half-human."

"Oh. That's not very exciting."

"It is when they try to destroy the world." Nate arches a disbelieving eyebrow. "Yup," I say with a nod. "Halflings are unpredictable that way."

"Unpredictable . . . Oh. My parents. They'll worry when they find out I'm gone."

"Tora will send someone to take care of that," I say. "Your parents will think you're staying with friends or something. And mind the web." I tug him sideways before he can walk straight into a nearly invisible web strung between two trees.

"Thanks." He gives the poisonous strands a wide berth. "So, um, will your parents mind me staying over?" he asks.

"I don't have parents."

He frowns. "Wait a minute. So this really is like Peter Pan then? A baby laughs and a faerie is born?"

I roll my eyes. Is he going to take everything I say literally? "I had parents, they're just not around anymore. They were guardians, and they were both killed on assignment. My mother died when I was three, and my father when I was fourteen."

"Oh." Nate runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry."

I shrug. "All guardian children grow up knowing death is a very real possibility." That doesn't stop it from hurting like hell when it happens, though.

"So why would you want to do it?" asks Nate.

"Do what? Be a guardian?" He nods. Hmm. This is my chance to say something noble, like how I want to save people's lives. And that is part of it, but if I'm going to be completely honest . . . "I love the life. I love the thrill, the risk, the energy. I love how alive I feel when I'm fighting, or even just training. It doesn't matter what it is—weapons practice, close combat, sprinting, swinging around bars, practicing flips and somersaults—I love it all."

Nate stops walking and stares at me.

"What?" I ask.

"You can do all that?"

"Well, it's not like I just made that all up. And, like I told you before, I want to be the best."

Apparently Nate can't think of anything to say to that, so after a few more seconds of staring, we keep walking. We should be moving faster—it isn't good to linger outside at night—but I find that I'm not in as much of a hurry as I thought I was. In fact, I think I'm almost enjoying talking to Nate.

We come to a stream that snakes between the trees. We could jump to the other side if we had to, but the forest has created a way across: Roots like gnarled fingers reach from both sides of the stream, twisting and tangling with one another, interweaving to form an uneven bridge. Wary of what may be lurking in the dark water, I grasp Nate's hand and pull him quickly across, dropping his hand the moment we reach the other side. We continue our journey between the trees, and I wait for Nate to fill the silence between us.